


Being Enough

by KendylGirl



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dom/sub, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl
Summary: Armie Hammer is a successful man by every external definition of the word, but his private life is a constant search for one thing: balance.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 140
Kudos: 268





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [onlyastoryteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyastoryteller/pseuds/onlyastoryteller). Log in to view. 



> This story is the consequence of the most unique collaboration that I've ever been blessed to experience. Since my reading of its first few chapters, I was challenged by her story, and onlyastoryteller was kind and generous enough to allow me into her creative process and to work with me to develop this story in combination with her own. For this, I have no words adequate enough to express my gratitude for everything she has done!
> 
> To say that I am a newcomer to the world of D/s dynamics is an understatement, but this character continued to speak to me until I gave him a voice of his own. I hope that you enjoy what he says ❤️🙏❤️

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185482045@N03/50936769473/in/dateposted-public/)

[ Art by Chalamazed ](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1360402126556581891?s=20)

First, do no harm.

These are words by which I live my life. It is a code, a vow essential to the role I have. It is a responsibility that I do not take lightly. Trust is a delicate and consuming power. It can’t be divided and bestowed in parts; it can’t be taken by force. It must be wholly given, and once it is betrayed, it dies a quiet and permanent death.

But my field isn’t medicine. It’s education.

At least, that’s how I see it, as the evolution of my growth from student to teacher, but the transition is never a complete one. Even as I instruct, I have to learn, to observe closely and diagnose needs, to test theories, to test limits. What I give, I receive. The more I learn about my subject, the more encompassing my ability to anticipate and meet the needs of those under my control.

Isn’t that what it means to be a teacher?

Perhaps this is why I asked him to call me Sir. I’ve varied my names over the years, my titles, but I’d never chosen this before. He was my first in that respect.

Though part of me knew it was the only way for me to find what I most seek: balance. A center. Since I’d read his profile, stared night upon night at his pictures, I’ve felt out of sync with myself, that incurable dissonance that, before now, has kept me searching, kept me from settling on one. Maybe there is no _one_ for me, and that is fine. There’s a steady stream of contract offers, and I’ve been able to make a life on my own. Several in fact. My business does not cross to my personal, nor my personal into my core. I’ve heard there are some who can integrate all of these, and the concept of that rhythm is tempting. It is something I keep close to my thoughts every day, like a shadow that dims my experiences just enough for me to know the copper of dissatisfaction. It keeps me hungry, keeps me drawing up contracts and poring over profiles of hundreds I will never know, those who have never known themselves. So much anxiety is to be had in the fog of ignorance, and that is a darkness I run from constantly.

Balance is the only peace.

The balance I seek from one with as much to offer as I do, whose gifts can match mine, one in whom I can forfeit the only treasure I bear: trust.

Balance requires an equal.

That’s why I’ve never liked the word _domination_. Its inaccuracy is offensive. Structure and discipline are not a conquest; they are a path. I don’t want to overwhelm a subject, merely to guide him, allow him to break free from the chaos of his life, to instill the freedom of acquiescence, to quiet his mind from the demons that compel him to squander opportunities, to deny his worth. To lie. To steal. To let his own inhibitions be overrun by impulse and shortsightedness, making him a slave to baser instincts that lead inevitably to ruin.

That’s where I come in, to transform ruin into rebirth.

* * *

My own experience as a sub is what taught me about the wise exercise of control. Before then, I had no idea what control was, but I sure as hell tried to exert as much of it as I could. I was angry through most of my youth. Really, it was rage. I hated my family, their limited and narcissistic view of the world, one that divided all things into two categories: worthy and unworthy. I was perpetually in the latter, and they quickly carved me out of their lives like a cancer. I wasn’t disowned and thrown into the street; nothing so definitive. I just didn’t exist. I was invisible. 

Everything I did up to the age of 24 was to solve that problem. Don’t see me, Dad? Fine. How about if I get stinking drunk and piss over the mezzanine at the opera? Or bring home a string of men whose names I would never even bother to learn, fuck them loudly in the foyer and the kitchen and the pool deck? Would crashing my car into the fountain downtown make you look up from your newspaper long enough to look into my eyes?

Hey, Mom, what if I steal your favorite jewelry and art, including that museum piece you got on loan for the Met Gala, and throw it all in the sea or use it to buy enough narcotics to anesthetize a professional football team?

No problem. I was flexible. 

My training was not a last resort as it is for so many like Timmy. It was a lark. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. I figured it could shock and appall as much as any other abomination of which I was capable. I never expected the revelations it brought me, never expected that stillness and simplicity would allow me to unlock the centers of my anger, to discover that anger is not real, that it is merely a phantom guard dog that protects us all from what we would rather not feel--pain, fear, loss, grief. When the lock opened, I nearly drowned in the flood.

For my whole life, I’d been a source of shame, and I had done my best to show everyone that was indeed what I was. Of course, this never left room for patience and forbearance, for the peaceful simplicity of a quiet and focused mind. And in the end, once I’d been forced to relent, to unknot my fist and spread my hand, I realized that it was empty. The control I’d thought I’d seized was an illusion.

My first Dom was a fair but hard man. He lived somewhere in Montana, though the exact location was never known to me. He was a rancher, accustomed to breaking the mustangs who assumed they could still be wild on his land. His patience was the only thing more enduring than his firmness as I continued to wriggle and thrash against the confines of our arrangement, and he made clear to me the final step I needed to make. “You decide,” he said to me one night while I was kneeling on a wooden plank outside, stark naked save the wrist and ankle restraints and the blindfold over my eyes. “You decide how you respond, and that is all. If life has not made that clear to you yet, then I sure as hell will. Nothing else is up to you.” Then he’d leaned close to my ear and murmured, “Stop trying to control the outcome of things.”

My second and final Dom proved the rancher right. He swore that pain was the one conduit to enlightenment, that the bliss of agony is what kept humans at peace. In short, he was a sadist. One week into our association, he burned my shoulder with a heated fireplace poker as a punishment for oversleeping. When the shock of pain had subsided, I’d risen to my feet and stared him directly in the eye. I towered over him, and I’d seen him shrink back and raise his weapon higher. In that moment, I decided my response. I ripped the poker from his hand and threw it out of the front window of his house, shattering the glass. And then I left, turned and walked right out the front door and never looked back. 

I would never forget how that felt, to be a sub who could not trust his Dom, to know that when the given trust is violated, any sub can decide to take everything away. 

_Game over_.

That will not be my fate.

I will only work with professionals who take every precaution for me and those that they train, and _Submissive Solutions_ is the best by far. Every sub I’ve contracted has reminded me in some way of myself before I entered the system, lost in the web of their own self-destruction, a breath away from Involuntary status. It’s never been about sex. I’ve never wanted it to be. I have paid for the service of these people, and prostitution is not an enterprise I want to engage in. I admit to participating in sexual acts with a sub on occasion, their consent explicitly stated numerous times, but those interactions were rare. It had been a need that I was compelled to fulfill; it had started and ended there. The only things I’ve offered consistently are money, order, and wisdom; I’ve desired nothing in return but the satisfaction that I’ve performed my own role effectively.

When I saw Tim’s pictures, I knew immediately this time would be different. Even in standard black and white, he is stunning. One I kept at the top of the stack. His face was close to the camera, like he’d slid up next to it to tell it a naughty secret with one thick eyebrow cocked. I had stared at the sultry downward turn of his eyes, which are large and hypnotic, lashes so thick they shaded his cheekbone. His soft lips pulled up in a ghost of a smile. I had run my finger over them, imagined the give of his flesh under my finger, how his tongue would peek out as he’d try to wet it and pull it inside his mouth in the wake of a soft moan.

I think of that now as I watch him in the conference room from the office next door, the animation in his face as he speaks to Flo, the motion of his hands, and whatever he’s just demanded, she’s surprised. Or panicked. But Tim’s face is not one that gets people to say no. She frowns and stands abruptly after slapping her laptop closed, and she disappears from the monitor. A few moments later, there is a polite knock at the door and the latch scrapes. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Hammer.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’m afraid we’ve a small problem.”

My blood curdles slightly. “What kind of problem?” My voice is cold even to my own ears.

“It’s Tim, Mr. Hammer, he...ah...he’s made a request of you. An _insistent_ request.”

I chuckle. “Has he now?” _Oh, Timmy, what am I going to do with you?_

“He would like to speak with you.”

“Speak with me?”

“Yes, sir. I know it is highly unusual, but you seem quite adamant about sealing this contract, and I’m not sure if--”

I sit forward, my jaw tight. “I am. I won’t let this one walk away.” I clench my fists. “Does he want more money?” _I don’t give a shit. I’ll pay ten million if I have to_.

“No, he has no issue with the compensation…” She winces. “But given your interest in this one, well, I feel I should warn you. Our trackers have his heart rate at 131, BP 142 over 85, cortisol and adrenaline spiking.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m afraid that...well, our data shows that at these levels, he’s very close to bolting, so I thought--”

“What’s your number?”

She stares wide-eyed. “Excuse me?”

“What’s your cell phone number?

She rattles off the digits, and I press them into my phone’s keyboard. It starts to ring immediately. She digs the device out of her portfolio and holds it up in two fingers like it’s an asp, and she blinks at me vacantly.

I level my gaze at her, sharpen my tone. “Take it to him.”

She rouses and scurries from the room.

What balances the rope of any demand is the need at the opposite end which has necessitated it. He needs a tangible connection. He needs to _feel_ the firm binding for his trust before he can step out over thin air with nothing but a contract as his parachute. That is not too much to ask. I can do that for him, but it won’t come without a price. In return, he will slake my growing thirst.

On the screen, I see Flo enter the conference room and hold out her phone to him. He hesitates, and I smile. _Good boy_. Caution is called for when you exceed established boundaries.

“H-hello?”

“Timothée,” I say, and it feels like a sigh. I’ve practiced his name in my head, said it countless times into the folds of my pillow as I had paced at the shore of waking and sleeping, while his eyes had hovered above me, pale skin just out of the reach of my fingers. 

“Timmy,” is the demure response. _Oh, Timothée, so unaware of your own grandeur_.

“Timmy,” I echo.

I see him bite his lip, an adorable tell. Is he always this open with his every thought? “And you are…?” There is too much air in the question to support the weight of its attempt at boldness. He is unable to conceal his disappointment when I tell him to call me Sir, and all I can think of is how extensive, how gorgeous, this responsiveness will be in the months to come.

“Thank you for agreeing to this. I really appreciate it.”

As it happens, so do I. “What pretty gratitude,” I coo to him. “You’re very welcome.” I lean closer to the monitor, watch as his tongue circles his lips, his hand as it stitches through his hair when he talks, and it looks better mussed, like he only gets more magnetic the more off-kilter he feels. Giving up control suits him perfectly, and his body screams that to me with every movement. It’s as if Nature has planned this for us from the start.

“Why the hair removal?”

The question is a sudden one, and I smirk. I had decided this from day one, and now that I’ve seen him in life, I want it more. The skin is the body’s largest organ. It breathes, it gives, it sheds and renews. None of that should be obscured from me, not when he is mine, and when he realizes his own power without that unnecessary mask, he will understand. When he feels the pleasure of touch uninhibited, it will be undeniable. 

“Because I like it. That’s all you need to know.”

“Where do you live?”

“Los Angeles. Have you ever been?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it, already joined with thoughts of where we could go, of where I could take him during the day that he might love, and I feel a heat at my collar when I consider the spots we could head to when it is night. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll show you some of it.” I swallow. His effect on me is strong, and I will have to remember this. I will have to be Spartan with myself when we finally share the same air. 

The simple praise makes him shiver deliciously, and I feel my temperature rise higher. I chuckle from pure disbelief. “I can tell you’re going to be perfect for me, Timmy,” and I know my voice betrays me, practically dripping with an arousal I can’t yet contain. “I can’t wait to meet you in person.”

“ _If_ I decide to sign,” Timmy squeaks. 

_You’ll sign,_ _Timothée. You feel it, too, and I see it all over you like my fingerprints._ “Would you like to test it out? See if we’re compatible?” Timmy’s elbow slips from the table, and the phone pulls away from his ear slightly, so I give him a nudge of assurance. “No pressure. I’m not testing you, I already know that I want you. But if you need a test for me, I’ll give you one. Your choice.”

_Choose me,_ _Timothée. For the love of God, choose me._

His shoulders finally relax. “Yes, okay. Sir.”

I have him describe the room as a preamble before I clear my throat to empty some of the softness and prepare it for command. “I want you to stand up, walk over to the window, and face out.”

“Why?”

_Question everything_ is a mantra that has led all of us into disarray by leading to perpetual dissatisfaction, questions upon questions without the answers to go around. Where there is trust, there is no need to ask.

I drop the phone on the table for just a few seconds as I undo my belt and the button of my slacks. 

“Okay, I’m there.”

“Good boy.”

I ask him some innocuous questions to keep him occupied while I get comfortable, and as I watch him gaze out at the skyline, I make a small correction so that I have a complete view of him for what will happen next. “Take one half step backwards.” When he complies, I add casually, “Now, I want you to kneel down.”

He bristles as I knew he would. But I see something else in the crinkle of his brow, a latent curiosity that compels him. Perhaps it is just resignation, but he has no reason to think he has to comply. He doesn’t know I’m watching. He could easily lie, but it is clear to me that lying is not his strength, not with how much truth he emits with every breath.

He sinks to his knees on the plush carpet. “I did it,” he tells me firmly.

I’d believe him even if I could not see him.

“You may sit back on your heels,” Timmy’s hair glints in the muted sunshine that filters through the window. I want to stroke it, feel how it absorbs the light and turns it into heat. “You’re doing a good job, Timmy. Excellent so far. Except for when you asked for an explanation. Do you know why asking for an explanation isn’t allowed?”

His throat works against itself. “Because I don’t need one?”

I smile. “Exactly. You learn quickly. Are you ready for the next step?”

Timmy nods. “Yes. Sir.” And every time he says it, it sends the same jolt through my gut.

“Good.” I scratch at my cheek, glad for once that I did not pack a razor for this trip because I need something to give me resistance, itchy stubble fighting my nails with each swipe. “This may be a little difficult, but I want you to do your best. If you can’t, there will be no consequences. I want that to be clear.” I grip the phone tighter and push it closer to my mouth. “There is _no punishment_ if you cannot comply right now. I will still want your contract. Tell me you understand.”

_Tell me tell me tell me_...

“I understand, Sir,” Timmy says, and he seems pleased, eager, and I exhale with relief. 

Affection paints every syllable of my next order: “Unzip your trousers and pull out your cock.”

Timmy gasps, and I absorb every minute change in him. His mouth contorts slightly, the initial shock overridden by a deeper hunger shining in the darkness of his eyes, in the flash of tongue over his bottom lip.

“Timmy?” I call to him softly. “Did you hear me?”

“Y-yes,” Timmy stutters. “I don’t...you want me to do that here?”

I lay my hand flat on my stomach. “Yes. Right now.”

The tendons of his neck jerk like marionette strings as he swallows again and again, the point of his larynx threatening to poke through the skin. _You know you can do it,_ _Timothée. Trust me._ Timmy’s hand drifts to his crotch, grabs his zipper. I copy his movements as he pulls it down slowly, reaches inside. When his hand hits his cock under his boxer briefs, he gasps again, luckily obscuring my own.

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” I say tightly, shunning the impatience, the desperation.

“I’m...nervous. What if someone sees? What if someone walks in? Flo, or someone...else?” Timmy babbles, half an octave higher than before. 

“Is that _all_ you feel?” I prompt. _Tell me everything_ , _Timothée. I need everything._

“No,” he says finally. “I’m also...it’s a little bit…”

“Exciting?” My question is nearly a hiss. 

“Yes.”

I’m sweating. I feel it soaking through the armpits of my shirt. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.

“Timmy, I am going to give you until the count of five to comply.” I keep my voice measured so that the words don’t snap off in his ear. “By the time I reach five, I want you to have your cock outside of your pants, in your hand.”

“What if I can’t?” Timmy asks.

_I might die_. “Then you can’t.” And need makes me weak, so I offer, “You go back to the table, and I will allow you to ask me one more question, and then I will hang up.”

He readjusts his grip on the phone, and his torso twists as he looks down and away, curls overtaking one eye. “But you won’t revoke your offer?”

“No. I already told you my offer will remain regardless.” I flex my fingers. “One.”

He doesn’t move.

“Two.”

His whole body undulates slightly as he breathes heavily, wars with himself between _should_ and _would_. Then, wonderfully, he spreads his knees further, bites his bottom lip with a single white tooth. It’s all I can do not to groan.

“Three.”

We slip our hand inside the flap of his briefs, circling our palm around the skin of his cock. It’s glorious. We grow harder by the second.

I’m nearly frantic at this point. “Four.”

We pull our cock out, cradling it in our palm. 

“Five. _Good boy._ ”

My heart punches in my ears, and I close my eyes to absorb each of his high-pitched, fevered gasps. It is the only way I have to breathe right now, so I let my mouth fall open for just a moment, let myself take in the glory of this perfect sunrise that makes me realize how many years I’ve spent living in darkness, to kiss the sky before I have to return to earth.

“I knew you could do it,” I ooze at him. “You did very well, Timmy. Put your cock away now, and zip up. You may return to the table.”

Timmy gives us a firm stroke, his breath catching in my throat.

_Oh, God_. No. This can’t happen. If he...

“Stop.” I grit my teeth. “I said put it away, not jerk off.”

I see the devil in his eyes. We stroke him twice more, and he closes his eyes at the sensation, rolls his head back, pumps his hips just a bit forward. Any more and I’ll come, and _fuck_ do I want that, but--

“Timmy.”

He immediately lets go, and as he makes his way on fawn’s legs back to the table, I melt into the cushion of my chair. _Holy shit, I’m in a lot of trouble_. We both do our best to sort ourselves out, still hard as a rock. I try to covet the sensation, the anticipation it offers. I’ll have a year with him. I’ve at least been given that. I can wait.

I know his needs are different, however. “When you get home, you may make yourself come.” I shove the heel of my hand into my crotch. “I want you to think about this when you do. About what it felt like to kneel in front of that window, where anyone could see you, and how it felt to do it because I wanted it.”

Timmy lets out a soft moan, and I can’t help but chuckle again. _Yes, quite a lot of trouble_. “You’re going to be perfect for me. I can tell.”

Timmy’s hand rises to his throat. “Is that what it’s going to be like?” He squeezes slightly. “Sir?”

“ _Better_ ,” I assure him, allowing myself one more press to my groin. “I promise.” I clear my throat. “Now, I have to return to work. You may ask me one more question before I do.”

Timmy sits forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Why me?” he asks. “Why did you pick me?”

Simple question. It has a simple answer. “I picked you because I liked what I saw, and I think we will fit.”

“But I’m not even really a submissive,” Timmy splutters. “You could have someone who—”

“You’re exactly what you need to be.” My voice is louder than I intend. “And exactly what I want.”

Timmy chews on his lip, swipes at his hair. “Okay.” I can tell he doubts that, but I can also tell that it is himself that he doubts, not me. That is one of the many things that his education will solve. We will do that work together. “Do you--”

I cluck my tongue, smile warmly at the screen, want to reach out and rub away the furrow of concern on his forehead. “I said _one_ more question. I’ve allowed you to ask one and a half. Don’t you think I’ve been generous?”

Timmy’s lips ripple in the smile of an imp. “The half wasn’t a question,” he points out. “It was a statement. You volunteered information without being asked.”

I bubble a surprised laugh. _Clever boy_. “Touché.”

He sits a little straighter. “Thank you for being generous with your answer. Sir.”

I want to pick him up and carry him out of the building right now. “You’re welcome. I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Timmy.”

“Yeah, me, too. With you. Uh...thank you again for the call, Sir.” It’s natural now, that formal appellation. He adapts so well.

“You’re welcome again. I hope to meet you in person soon.”

I disconnect the call and spin the chair away from the screen, re-situate my clothing, flap the sides of my suit coat to help cool the fading perspiration. I wander over to the windows of the office, look out at the buildings that would’ve watched Timmy in all of his debauched glory. _I hope you enjoyed it. He’s all mine now._

Eventually, there is a hesitant knock at the door. “Mr. Hammer?”

I turn and smile. “Yes, Florence, please come in.”

She clutches her armful of papers. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, of course.” I massage my jaw for a moment. “This one will challenge me, as much as I hope to challenge him.” Then, I button my jacket and pick up my briefcase, give her a sharp nod. “File the papers immediately.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie and Timmy meet for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could, I would kiss every single one of you wonderful people for your kindness and support; all of your comments have been more than I could've dreamed! ❤️

Penmanship is a lost art--one of many, unfortunately. It requires patience and cultivated skill to turn mere words into as eloquent an image as a thought. I’d practiced writing when I was seven like it was my life’s work, wrangling an oversized pencil across blue lines, bends and curves that actually meant something when before there had been nothing but empty space. 

It was one of the few bright spots of my childhood, sitting at a table with my tongue clamped between my lips, fingers white with the strain of holding the pencil as I’d been instructed, and when I’d finished three whole sentences, my tutor came over to look. She’d held up the page and smiled broadly. “Excellent work, Armie!” she’d gushed. “Such great form! Can you do more for me?”

I’d nodded eagerly, so she’d placed the paper back in front of me and petted the back of my head. “I know you can. You’re such a good boy.”

I’d warmed under the praise. It was an elixir I had so rarely sampled. 

“And you know what else I know? I know you can do better. Do you think you can?”

I remember blinking at the page and then up at her. “I want to be perfect.”

Her eyebrows raised, and she’d patted my shoulder. “Oh, no, honey, I am not expecting to see _perfection_ in anything you learn, only the effort to do your best.” Then she’d ruffled my hair. “Perfection only comes with practice and understanding, and both take time and work to achieve. You’ll get there one day.”

I’ve never forgotten her words. Her kindness showed me that artistic dedication is part of the goal of committing thoughts to paper. It turns perfection into reality.

It sickens me to see how keyboards have destroyed writing. Few people master script as they ought to and take possession of their language as it is meant to be seen. Any idiot can drag his thumbs across a screen. What’s worse, people today think that a lack of capital letters makes them edgy and cool, or that an absence of punctuation makes them convivial when all it does is make them sloppy and weak. Obliterating boundaries instead of learning their power has infantilized a generation. 

I inspect the paper in front of me, hold it up to the light and make sure it has no stray marks, no indentations that could mar its message. I’m asking him for his best; I should offer nothing less in return.

This is my seventh draft.

I fold it in thirds with a solid stroke of my thumb across the thick paper and slip it crisp into the open slot of the envelope, lick the paste in fat swipes, imagining how his fingers will fondle and pull at this seam to open it, how he will claw my DNA under his fingernails for the very first time, and he will smile.

The updates I get from Florence are promising. Timmy takes to his training as I knew he would, and the cage that I selected for him goes on without incident. I spent days deciding on it, careful contemplation of it in my mind’s eye, how it would look against his skin, soft brushed metal that could absorb the heat from his body, nestle smoothly between his strong thighs. I had stopped thinking of it as an inhibitor, as prevention, and started to regard it as a protector, a device which would shield that which I covet from all other hands but mine.

It wasn’t the first gift I’d gotten for him. But the others will wait.

Long before he’d signed any contracts, I was making plans. I’d gotten a stack of files from _Submissive Solutions_ delivered, and not the electronic kind. I get no feel for anything as flashes of electrons. I need to see it in print, to look at the dent of the pen when the application was filled out, the glossy images that they attach of each applicant in various positions, and the company indulges me, letting me know each time how valuable my business is to them. I don’t particularly need the reminder--I can add, and the amount of money I’ve put into their clients speaks for itself--but it’s nice all the same.

There was a fluffy note from Florence on the outside of the envelope, thanking me profusely for my continued interest in their service, urging me to call her personally if I required any assistance, complete with day and evening phone numbers. I’d never let my time lapse so much between subs, so she must’ve been worried I’d gone elsewhere or lost interest, but I can’t fault her for that. She couldn’t truly know what it’s like because she’s only ever been responsible for one of her own.

I’d had several in quick succession, determined to apply what I’d learned from one to the next, to pay forward the lessons that could make all the difference to their education. How to quiet the mind bent on anxiety with concentration exercises, how to use neat and solvable puzzles to instill a sense of accomplishment, how to restore a sense of pride that had been lost to recklessness and depravity. In the midst of this, the greatest demands I had were to myself. These people needed me, needed my help as much as I needed to provide it, and that is not a responsibility I take lightly. There is no way I would allow substandard results from them, so I had no choice but to offer the same in return.

There is no rest in that, not even for a second. Constant planning, constant vigilance. And after five straight years, I wasn’t sure I had it in me to continue.

The last one had been the only female I’d ever taken on. She was a spitfire, an Irish export with an unruly name that absolutely suited her: _Saoirse_. It’s as if she were begging the world to misunderstand her, daring it to. And it obliged her. She’d become an actress at a very young age, and according to the films I watched as research, she was stellar; she had excelled, won multiple high-stakes awards, but by her mid-twenties, she’d loudly told Hollywood to fuck off, fed up with the crippling cult of toxic masculinity that had subbordinated her and her accomplishments to a spate of young men who earned more effusive praise, grander opportunities, and larger paychecks for work not even a fraction as good.

Men made the rules, controlled the game, and it was one she could never win. Her innate talent could never overcome that, and she knew it. As a result, she set out to do as much mayhem to herself as she could, subconsciously beating Hollywood in the only way she knew how; the studios may have damaged her self-image, but with persistent effort, Saoirse knew she could utterly destroy it.

Drugs, self-mutilation--not enough. I read a splashy article that she once had showed up to a restaurant in nothing but fishnet stockings and a top hat, breaking $12,000 in glassware before the police were able to pull her out of the building. After her third arrest, this one for smashing a stolen car through the window of a local news studio, she’d run out of lives to waste on the dust of dead dreams.

All of her training reports had been spotless. She was cooperative, curious and polite, always willing to do what was asked of her without complaint. _A model student._ It didn’t track with a single thing I had come to know about her, and I had an inkling of the extent to which this girl really was the best actor of her generation. 

When she had arrived here on the first day, Saoirse had hovered demurely in the corner while Florence had sipped tea and chatted with me. When I’d bid Flo farewell and closed the door behind her, I had stared at Saoirse without saying a word until she had taken a deep breath and raised her eyes to mine, and I had watched as the pretense melted from her at last. 

She had glared at me defiantly, triumphantly, and snarled, “Thinking to scare me, are ya? Big _man_ in his big _house_ , buyin’ women like we’re toys. You’re some kind of sick fuck, aren’t ya, Daddy, with your whips and your chains.” She’d laughed bitterly. “Men are so _pathetic_ , the lot of ya!” Her chin had jutted upward. “Go ahead, then, _Daddy_ \--do your worst. I know you want to, you fucking pervert!”

She was goading me to abuse her, or discard her, as if either were seriously my goal. 

I’d smiled at her. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but I’m not sending you away,” I’d told her quietly.

“Of course not!” she’d spat back. “You probably get off on the hatred, don’t you? Did you lock up your knives, or do you _want_ to see if I’ll try to murder you in your sleep?”

“No.”

“Then what, you smug bastard? What the fuck do you want from me?”

“I want nothing from you. I simply know what you need, and I know I can provide it.”

She’d barked a laugh. “So playing God--that’s your fix. Shoulda known. Well, His Holiness, say your own prayers for the damned, because you _don’t_ know me, nor _shit_ about what I _need_ , so best of luck to you tryin’ to make me beg for your grace.”

“I don’t require begging.” My face had turned to stone. “But I do require respect.” I had pointed to the marble at my feet. “Knees.”

Her face had purpled dangerously, but to her credit, she obeyed. It was as if her acquiescence was somehow part of the middle finger she’d flipped at the whole institution, and to me: _I can fake my way through all of your shit, but no one will get to me. No one will break me_.

I understood her more than she could ever possibly know.

For the entire year, Father was the name she was required to call me, and slowly--so, _so_ slowly--it lost its bite of sardonic venom, and the trust she had meted out in cold teaspoons started to thaw and flow more freely. In return, I called her You. It was three months before she gave in and asked why. I’d leaned over her shoulder and whispered into her ear, “Because it is the only element that _Saoirse_ seems to be missing...”

It had started as a simple vowel joke for that ridiculous name of hers, but it was clearly more. And the journey her face had taken at that moment had shown it, falling through the layers of what that could mean, revealing something to me that had made it the turning point I’d been hoping for.

By the time our year had ended, she’d made a stunning transformation, brought back to the assured, composed person she always was before the world made her question her own abilities. Somehow, she had thought that I was the key to maintaining that status for her, and she’d begged me to stay, over and over again. But all I had done was to assist her in peeling back the layers of filth from her eyes until she could see again. It was all that had to happen. The steps she took out of her own personal hell were ones she had taken on her own, and I’d never dream of robbing her of that realization by letting her cling to me like a talisman.

She didn’t really need me. And I knew for certain that I didn’t need her. I was satisfied, and my work was done.

What I did need, however, was a vacation, from this and from everything.

When Saoirse left, so did I. I flew to the Caymans and spent a solid month doing little more than laying on a beach drinking shitty beer, maybe playing a shirtless round of golf after a breakfast of fried mac and cheese or something equally as disgusting, growing a hideous mustache and shaving my head until I looked like a villain from a 1970s cartoon. I was utterly drained. My exhausted brain went into a stand-by mode. It was all I could do to decide whether or not to brush my teeth each day. I allowed myself to temporarily devolve, like a top that had spun itself out.

But the restlessness gradually set in, cold in my chest. I couldn’t help the feeling that there was something out there waiting for me, something more that I needed to do, to discover. I was useless here, and the thought of that, the _feeling_ of it, was a poison. Those who are useless have no worth, and against that particular brand of poison, there is still no antidote in my bloodstream. It was enough to bring me back to Los Angeles, and after a few days of catching up on work details, I sent a message to Florence to inquire about new applicants.

Timmy’s file had hit her desk that morning. His and 24 others were overnighted to me, and Timmy’s was the third one in the pile. I’m not sure I ingested a single word of the ones that followed, but I resisted the impulse to dump the rest in the trash and phone Flo at home to reserve his option. Instead, I did my due diligence and read each one carefully over the course of a couple of weeks, dipping into all manner of control exercises to stave off the panic that threatened to overwhelm me at the thought of him being snatched up by another customer or changing his mind and rescinding his application from the agency before I could make him an offer that would be absolutely impossible to refuse.

* * *

When an envelope arrives mid-week from _Submissive Solutions_ , my heart nearly stops. I wasn’t expecting anything. Timmy had just started his training, and everything should be running smoothly. 

Unless it isn’t.

And Florence couldn’t have called me first? Couldn’t have warned me? After all of the years of business I’ve given to them, no one could do me the courtesy of allowing an actual _conversation_ before an asset injures himself or bails on a contract?

Hot anger surges up my spine, and I decapitate the thick, padded envelope and send a puff of fibered cellulose into the air when I fling its useless flap to the ground. I grab at what’s inside and it crinkles in my grip as I rip it out.

It is a plain stationery envelope with a single word inscribed in spiky, slanted writing: _Sir._

That’s when my heart throbs in several heavy beats, like it’s being pumped by an external hand wrapped around it, strong fingers giving me more life than my body could produce on its own.

It’s from him.

He _wrote_ to me.

I stumble around to sit at my desk, lay my forearms flat because I don’t want to face what it could mean if I have to see the paper shake as they tremble. I read it four times in a row, realize on the third that I’m grinning like a kid, charmed by his self-deprecation and candor, hearing every word in the soft, hurried tones of the voice that had spoken to me that day, the one I’ve heard in my brain in the few moments it is unguarded to let sleep in, the one whose breaths I have replayed as I’d shift my legs under the covers and resist, grip my pillow with both hands to keep from reaching down and stroking myself in time to their cadence, determined to save myself for him, for when he is within reach.

I pull a couple of blank pages out of my desk drawer to respond immediately. I start three different letters, each fluffier than the one before, blithering about how grateful I was to get the letter, how Timmy shouldn’t be so hard on himself, how no one’s taken the time to write to me before now. How I’ve never bothered to write, either, let alone twice. 

But then I realize that my dribbles of emotion are not going to help anything. It’s pointless to expound on what I am feeling when it has nothing to do with what _Timmy_ needs, and that is all that matters here. 

_Come on, Hammer._

_Think. Know. Act._

_Get your shit together._

So I scrap that, condense the drivel to a few introductory sentences that I edit down severely. The bulk of what I give him is information, the tools he will need to find success in the next leg of his journey, and the reassurance that we can deal with whatever happens. I don’t want him to regret anything. I don’t want him to be afraid. 

Fear is _my_ job.

 _Be good for me_. 

I promise I’ll be good for you.

* * *

I pace the foyer and check my watch again. I tick off a list in my head, smooth the emotional feathers with the reassurance that all of my preparations are complete, every conceivable purchase has been made and stored for use as the need arrives. I’ve no reason to feel unsettled. I’m not new to this by any means. There is a certain amount of routine to be had in the process. New challenges, of course, but it’s the same process.

Yet, there it is. Off Center.

Distraction from Focus.

A desire to know and do and have...to _direct_.

Just me. Right now that’s all I can control. 

_Keep it together_. _And don’t fuck up_.

When I hear the hum of a car engine, I walk back through the house to the kitchen. I stand at the counter for ten seconds, and then I drink precisely eight ounces of water. When I hear the door chimes, I wash the glass, then walk around through two additional rooms back to the front door.

I hold my breath when I twist the knob. I look only at Florence, stare at the folds of her jacket like I am planning to later carve them into a block of wood from memory. I greet her. I don’t have any idea what I say. 

Because the sight of him in a blind and handcuffs makes my throat dry.

Because the suit I bought and had tailored for him looks stunning, better than I’d even hoped, the rich emerald color highlighting the gold strands in his hair that catch the light and the pinks in his soft, soft skin.

Because the barely perceptible lines of my cage through the thin material of his pants makes me half hard in moments, and I have to push my tongue against my upper molars to swallow a groan. 

_Composure_.

“Please, come in.” Exhale. “How was your flight?”

I see Timmy sway slightly, and in my head I count backwards from 1227 in multiples of three to keep my hand from reaching out to steady him. 1209...1206... To keep from staring at her small, perfectly manicured fingers snug in the fold of his elbow. It is making bile rise in my throat. _Get away from him_. 1194...1191...

“Can I get you something to drink? When is your return flight?”

Her smile is neat and polite. “I have a few minutes.”

 _Of course you fucking do_.

“Wonderful. Join me in the living room.”

I like Florence, I always have. She’s been a joy to work with--efficient, dependable, and discreet. And she is an objectively attractive young woman with a skilled swirl of blonde hair pulled tight to the back of her head and an expensive and professional dark blue suit, and she has handled this transaction with the same aplomb that she has handled all the others.

But as I watch her lay her hand on Timmy’s shoulder and depress the fabric of my suit, watch her grip his bicep gently as she guides him down to kneel on the satin cushion I have placed by the sofa, as I watch her touch his delicate ankles, his feet, as she removes his shoes to allow him to sit back on his heels, I want to pick her up, march her out to the porch, and slam the door.

1176...1173…

I shove a drink at her, and she thanks me. She takes a sip and looks around the room slowly. “Your place is, as always, so lovely.”

_What, are you planning on moving in here or something? This isn’t cocktail hour at a vacation resort._

I force a smile. “Thank you.” That’s it, that’s as far as I can go. I grip my glass harder to stop my fingers from snapping to hurry her along. “Tell me about the trip.” 

She pulls a piece of my stationery from her pocket, my letter upon which he’s documented his behavior, including a transgression and apology. She briefs me on what had happened on the plane, and when she falls silent, takes a quick drink from her glass, I narrow my eyes at her. “What else?”

Flo glances over at Timmy before she answers. “He spoke three times without prompting, but all involuntary reactions, and he recognized his mistake immediately. He didn’t try to explain it away.”

She’s lying, clearly. I clench my jaw and turn away, add more ice to my drink to conceal my hot flash of anger. What the fuck is this? Does she think she needs to protect him from me? Does she think she is the one in this room who knows what’s best for Timmy, that she has any right to--

1149...1146... 

I close my eyes for a moment, breathe in for four seconds, out for seven. 1128....

“He’ll still be punished, to reinforce his understanding. But I think we can take all of this into consideration. Thank you for your assistance.”

I do some conscious reframing and make the choice to be charmed by her apparent concern for him, but I still claim my space, move forward to put myself between them, steer her toward the table under the guise of offering her more to drink. Part of me is amused that she thinks I’d give a damn if he’d spoken ten times or fifty times, or if he’d mooned the damn pilot on his way off the plane. There’s no way I’d have terminated the contract. In fact, I’d have relished the opportunity to develop suitable corrections.

I ask Flo about how she’s managing the heat wave in the city, and as she launches into a low-key rant about the air conditioning quality in the average taxicab, I make the mistake of glancing down at Timmy at the moment he stretches his spine up to correct his posture, and two things happen. First, he tries to crack his neck, and when he twists his head toward the wall, he exposes the line of his throat to me. It is impossibly long, perfect ropes of muscles rippling the white skin, both vulnerable and strong, just like the rest of him. My palms sweat with the need to touch it, to lick across the waves and taste them. I bet his skin is sweet, like it’s been coated in a stardust of powdered sugar.

Wait, does he know already what he does to me? Can he smell it on me? Is he trying to manipulate me? Fuck, I _want_ it to be true. I want it to be an act that I can point to, isolate, and change. I want to defeat it.

But no, he’s not playing me. It was an innocent gesture. I can tell he’s lost the thread of our conversation and is not even sure where I am. This is just _him_. I realize the extent to which I will have to resist him, to stamp down the animal part of me that wants to sink its teeth into him and drink its fill. 

Abruptly, Flo says, “Well, this has been lovely, but I’ll have to get back.”

I flush, realizing I haven’t listened to a single word she’s said, so I escort her to the car and give her a warm send off, thanking her for her time, her dedication, and when I finally close the door and the house is quiet, I sigh with relief.

I walk back to the living room and feel my breath grow short, taken from me by the emerald vision of grace that kneels like an angel at the foot of a distant god. His shoulders shift, and his whole body trembles, and I lie to myself and say that mine is not doing the same, that I’m not actively trying to resist the magnet pull of him, that I can’t bring myself to take off his blindfold and look into those eyes, not yet, because he will see more of me than he should. I have to allow myself another few minutes to appreciate the gift of him, to adjust my mind fully to his physical presence before I will be able to conceal and lock away what is not his to own.

I place my hand on his head, and I nearly moan with relief. My fingers curl automatically into his hair, every bit as soft as I’d imagined it would be, and slide down to the haven of his neck. “Breathe,” I command, as much to myself as to him, quietly matching my lungs to his. _Feel that, Timmy? We’re in this together, you and I_. Our air accelerates briefly, then slows to a normal rate. “Good boy,” I gush, squeezing his flesh gently, and my blood surges because he responds again, feeding on my words, on the praise. I bend toward him. I want to lay my cheek against his crown and murmur nonsense into his ear just to loosen his joints and have him melt against me.

Reluctantly I release his neck so that I can circle around him, and I think that he might miss the contact as much as I do because he shrivels slightly, shoulders curving down again, but I have to look at all of him, to inventory the sharp line of his jaw, the full lips puckered, the soft expanse of his forehead that I very nearly lean down to kiss. “Beautiful,” I whisper, though I hadn’t meant to say a word.

I kneel in front of him, and the air shifts. It’s warmer down here, more humid. And I can smell him now, a subtle scent that instantly fixes itself to the center of my brain, one I am certain I will remember until I am dust. I reach out for his hands, run my palms along his, squeeze them gently. _Know me, Timmy. Trust me_. His hands are cool to the touch, and they curl into mine to seek the warmth he lacks. 

_Take it. Take whatever you need_.

I remove his cuffs and massage his wrists gently, hold his hands in mine. “Can you stand?”

He nods jerkily, and I can see that he’s unsteady, tingling limbs and nagging apprehension pulling at him more than gravity. The sharp edge of his tooth worries at his lip, that sweet and delicate pink flesh, and I growl a bit, raise my thumb without thinking and soothe the spot. _No, don’t hurt it, Timmy, please. Wounds take a very long time to heal_.

He interprets the move not as a protection, but as an admonition, for his frame folds in on itself, and his trembling wracks him like a prisoner doomed for the chair. His teeth click together. 

“Stop,” I implore. “You’ve nothing to fear, I promise you.” And his eyebrows pinch together because he wants to believe that, but he doesn’t yet, and that won’t do. So I reach out a shaky finger, hook it under his chin. “You’re _gorgeous_ , Timmy, do you hear me?” _Do you believe me?_

He tries to nod, doing little more than push his flesh deeper into my finger, once again offering me more of his soft underside.

The teacher in me is exhilarated, instantly recognizing the impulse he has for natural submission. My heart soars as I consider how far this year can take him. It suits him, this path, I am certain of it, whether he believes it of himself or not. Both of us will be molded by this partnership in ways we could not have dreamed.

“You’re nervous,” I affirm. “That’s normal. I bet you’d like to get that blindfold off, get a look at your new home. And me.”

Timmy’s nostrils flare. _Yes, that’s my boy. Answer me with your body first. Show me your mind before you tell me your words_.

“Is that what you’d like, Timmy? For me to take the blindfold off? You may answer.”

“Y-yes,” Timmy splutters, like his tongue is weighed down by all the words he didn’t say. “Please, I’d like to see.”

I take three slow breaths. 987...984...981…

“I mean, yes, Sir,” Timmy stumbles to add. “Please, Sir.”

“ _Good boy_.” I ooze, stepping closer and running my hands down Timmy’s chest, massaging the taut muscles that still tremor under his shirt. I reach my fingers up and pet at the fabric of the blindfold. “I can grant that pretty request.”

His head twitches toward my touch, nestling his freshly pinked cheek into the cup of my palm. _God help me_.

As I work the knot, I think about my tutor again, the woman who had seemed to really care about me, and maybe part of her did. But when the summer came, she left me. Because in the end, I was just a job for her, and no matter how many times I made her smile with how fast I could multiply or how I could spell my vocabulary words without mistakes, no matter how many times she said she was proud of me and my progress, she was always going to take her paycheck and go.

They all leave in the end.

It could’ve been the most important lesson she ever taught me.

With a final tug, I lift the blindfold away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think so far! 🤞❤️

**Author's Note:**

> I am quite nervous at the prospect of putting this story out there, especially given the current "climate," shall we say. I really hope that you enjoyed this and that you might be interested in more.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, for better or for worse! 😬😰


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